A Brush of Love
a story by
Jonathan Sturak
One of the eleven stories in
From Vegas With Blood
Watch this story recounted by actress Tenille Houston, free on YouTube HERE
Copyright © 2009 by Jonathan Sturak. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are used fictitiously and/or are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
www.sturak.com
My name is Anne Daniels. I’d like to tell you a story—a story about life, about love, and about…well…I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Three summers ago, I started a job in Indianapolis as a secretary for a small law firm that handled insurance cases. Indiana was home for me. While I was born in southern Nevada, I was raised in the Hoosier State. The Midwest was my life, and my new job was something I could handle, something safe. I did the usual mundane office duties—answering the phone, signing for packages, and taking notes. It wasn’t a bad job. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. Two partners ran the firm. My boss was Albert Bernstein, the old Jewish boy. You know, one who smoked those big stogies, talked through his nose, and always called others “kiddo” or “babe,” even if they were only ten years younger. Mr. Bernstein was in his sixties and had the most obnoxious wife who would never even acknowledge my name when she called.
“My husband, please,” she would say whenever I answered the phone.
My life at that time was starting to pick up. While my parents kept pushing me to go to college, I didn’t want to go to school; I wanted to meet a man. You know, one of those new law boys fresh out of an Ivy League school. I was twenty-five and my new job seemed to be the right thing. While it was just a glorified secretary position, perhaps Mr. Bernstein would hire my future husband. But above all, I was a working woman now—a hopelessly available working woman, I might add.
Men and I were like water and oil. I was the water and they were the oil, and I always seemed to find the ones who were extra thick and highly flammable. I did have a boyfriend, one of those chatty computer nerds who always talked about his computer games and Star Wars collectibles. His name was Jeff and he was thick like motor oil.
A month into my job, Mr. Bernstein decided to take a trip to an insurance conference in Tampa, Florida. It wasn’t the first time I saw him go away on business, but it was the first time he asked me to accompany him. Initially, I thought about making up some excuse not to go, but then I realized that I would only be fooling myself. Jeff and I needed some space and I only had my cat, Lucy, to worry about. So, I thought, Sure, what the heck, and gave my mom the kitty litter scooper. I was never in the Sunshine State and what better way to go than on a company paid trip.
We left on a Monday morning at six a.m. from Indianapolis. I overpacked, as if I were staying a week, but I had no idea what to expect. I packed everything from a sundress to a business suit—actually, three of each. Mr. Bernstein’s plan was to stay at the same hotel as the conference. That way we could check-in, make the Monday afternoon sessions, and then prepare for the full day on Tuesday. Then we would catch the Tuesday evening flight back north. He said he’d traveled a million times, and for all I knew, he actually did.
This was the second flight in my life, the first being to Philadelphia when I was seven. While every jostle of the plane made my stomach sink, the tropical paradise underneath us brought it back up. As soon as we landed at the airport, Mr. Bernstein and I shared a cab to the hotel—the Doubletree on Cypress Street. As we made the five minute drive, a new world painted itself outside my cab window. Palm trees swayed; seagulls soared; and tourists marched. Florida was a beautiful state, a state which I had wished one day to visit. Now I was here, breathing the warm and humid July air, but all we were planning to do was stay hidden inside our hotel.
The first day at the conference was filled with mind-numbing seminars on proposed tort reform, new forms of insurance, and embracing technology to better a law practice. Mr. Bernstein had me take notes on everything while he drank coffee and smoked cigars with his old buddies. But I couldn’t complain, this beat sitting in our office in Indianapolis doing the same thing. At least I had a room full of new faces to keep my heavy eyes moving.
At five o’clock, the conference was over. Mr. Bernstein asked me how my note taking went, and then informed me that we were having dinner in the hotel restaurant at six with a couple of attorneys from New York. When I glanced over his shoulder to see the two men, I hoped Pierce Brosnan’s and Clive Owen’s twin would massage my eyes, but all I witnessed was Ben Stein and Woody Allen gumming a stogie. The old men were one thing, but I was not in the mood to have dinner with choking smoke clouding the view of my plate. What could I say to Mr. Bernstein? All I could reply to his proposal was, “See you in the lobby at six.”
I went up to my room, the only place of safety, and looked out the window at paradise. The afternoon sun lowered over the city as water vapor from a recent shower swirled over the macadam like mist over a placid lake. I craved to explore this land of lushness even if my only mode of transportation was my two feet. I needed to come up with an excuse, something to say to Mr. Bernstein to get out of our dull dinner. I looked around my room for an answer. I needed a pair of pliers large enough to remove this thorn in my side. As my eyes searched, I suddenly saw a way out—a bottle of Midol.
I called Mr. Bernstein’s room and told him that I wasn’t feeling well and that I wanted simply to stay in the room for the evening. He still tried to convince me to join him with his nasally rasp, but as soon as I mentioned the word “cramps,” he told me to take care and that he would see me in the morning. With the cigar smoke extinguished for the evening, I finally had time to myself.
I showered and as I stepped from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around myself, I pondered how I should dress—something casual yet sexy, classy yet opportunistic, and local yet out-of-town. I perused my clothes, tossed aside my business suits, and beheld my sundresses—pink, blue, and light green. After contemplating the unknown night, the sun kissed flowers on the pink dress won me over. Shoes were my next issue, but I decided to wear a pair of red flats, stylish yet easy on the feet.
It was just after six o’clock as I left my room and wandered toward the front of the hotel, bypassing the restaurant. For some reason, I felt like I was committing a crime, sneaking out of prison on the lookout for cigar smoke. Finally, I broke free as the warm evening sun bathed me in light. I took a breath of fresh air, air that I craved to breathe since touching down earlier in the day. I could sense a dampness reach my lungs, a scent much different from the deciduous Indiana. I walked to the street and saw hotel after hotel lined on each side of the road. This was the business and tourist district, a district filled with travelers like myself—a district I wanted to break free from. I had two paths to continue my journey. I looked behind me, and then in front. Both distant cross streets looked the same, but I was sure both would lead toward very different locations. After seeing a group of suits crossing the street toward me, I made the decision to drift toward the only signal I had—the setting sun.
I reached the distant block as a whirlwind of activity greeted me. Cars raced on the road in front of a massive mall with shops and restaurants surrounding it. It appeared I had rolled the dice in my favor. Floridians flourished around me. I crossed the street and rested my eyes on a bakery café, JavaHut. It was a small, unimpressive establishment nestled between a tanning parlor and a pet groomer. The place had a local feeling, and at that point, I wanted nothing more than a taste of the local life.
I entered as the smell of fresh bread invi
gorated my senses. Families out for dinner and individuals savoring a book or newspaper filled the restaurant. This was the perfect place for me to unwind, to sit and listen, and nothing else. I ordered the turkey avocado on three-cheese bread with a baguette for the side.
After I poured some iced tea next to the fountain drinks, I looked for a place to sit. The café was bursting at the seams, but surely, I could find some place to rest my aching bones. Near the window, I saw three occupied tables next to each other, but as I took the first sip of iced tea, the middle couple took their last, leaving me with an empty spot.
I snagged the table and basked in the new world around me as I savored my turkey sandwich. A thirty-something woman bronzed by the sun entered pushing a baby carriage. Then, a few college-aged beach bums sporting board shorts flip-flopped in. I love people watching, studying the seemingly random strangers sharing the same random path as me.
A middle-aged married couple and what appeared to be their adolescent daughter sat to my right. The family was probably out for a night at the mall, but I didn’t know; the only thing I did know was they
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